


Lo siento

by behzaintfunny



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Choking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Infidelity, Fluff, Heavy Angst, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Sharing a Bed, Smut, please forgive me cesc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 18:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: "Sergio watches in silent sorrow as the last tulip in the garden dies."Day 3 of Football RPF Week 2018 -- Bed sharing





	Lo siento

The stars illuminate the path before Iker's eyes as he strides forward through the eternal darkness.

Long alleyways are followed by even longer streets. Wherever you look, you are met with cold white sandstone and the disapproving look of the commonpeople. It is known that the Madrid market is the best supplier of fruit in all of Spain. Or, so it was, until Seville became the epicentre of the kingdom in such short time with their low prices and magnificent quality. It caused the city to become so poor that even with the Crown funding it, it couldn't live a normal life. It is seen in the cold alleys that once used to be lively and colorful.

Iker remembers the farmers market. He remembers going there with his mother each fifth day of the week to get the freshest herbs for their cooks. It was not their obligation to be doing such things, not at all, but his mother had her ways. She had never entirely forgotten her old life, back at home. Young Iker would cling to her hand and watch with childish curiosity what kind of food people would offer them. His old friend, Francesc, a lively little boy, always at his side. He would teach Iker songs his grandmother taught him. They'd sing them under the cover of the starlit sky instead of sleeping.

No one sings in Madrid anymore. There are no herbs.

There's only the constant wallowing and the noisy commotion. The eerie silence followed by sudden roars. It's the people, his people, expressing their feelings in the most animalistic of ways. His father had a diplomatic way of dealing with people. He, on the other hand, does not know diplomacy.

_"San Iker, the patron of liars! His hands stained with the blood of our children! May he burn in hell, butchered and broken! San Iker, the fraud!"_

They roar and protest until their lungs burn. Their calls are almost religious, as though they are screaming to God himself and begging him to make a difference. In their darkest fantasies, Iker's headless body thrown down the castle's stairs. Nothing can stop them, for an unhappy people is an unstoppable force. Their words claw at Iker's armor, like a lion that gets his hands on its prey. He remembers his father.

_"Never let their words bring you down."_

And so he shall.

He beckons his most trusted soldiers to ride with him with one motion of a hand.

"Kill them all." Iker says into darkness, "Hunt the ones who run the fastest."

Their roaring is silenced. The lion triumphs over the sheep.

Madrid is awakened with a startle by the rise of a red sun. The stars don't brighten their way as they ride back to the castle. There is nothing. They are, alas, alone.

**

At night, he dreams of hands he shouldn't be dreaming about.

He imagines their touch on his skin, rougher and different from what he is used to. Their feel on the curves of his body is almost painful, just the right amount. It doesn't hurt because he knows that the nature of all those touches is delicate. It is love.

He thinks, the hands seem oddly familiar. He cannot pinpoint why.

He dreams of stubble that isn't his, of a beard he never had.

He can feel it tickling his back as lips make way down, down, down. It burns, almost, but it doesn't. It is so strange but he cannot tell why.

He dreams of a musk he never had. He doesn't know why.

It is dizzying, almost pleasantly so. It is reminiscent of the sea, far, far away, and of the ocean. When he inhales it, he feels as though he is on a cruise. Floating, passive to the almighty waters, eternally peaceful. He imagines he can hear merchants chattering about oysters and treasure. He imagines he is not alone.

Then, he eventually connects the pieces together. Before his eyes, a whole another dream.

A memory, perhaps?

Suddenly, the hands are not just someone's hands. They're _his hands,_ they know him and his irks better than anyone else. They're calloused from pulling on rope so often. A very distant warmth emerges from his open palms as they roam over his body in sheer curiosity. It causes butterflies to flutter inside his stomach. He feels as though they shouldn't be doing this. Then again, that never stopped them before.

The beard is not just hair on an expressionless face. It's _his beard,_ the only one he has grown to know and love. It makes him look slightly older, more mature and have such refined facial features. Then again, maybe Iker wasn't paying enough attention before the beard was burning at the inside of his thighs. He'll never know.

He knew the musk was familiar for a reason. A sailor's scent, truly, and so much more than that. It's _his musk,_ the scent he was never fully able to get rid of. Even as a young knight in training, he'd smell of seasalt and of wet sand. He had never gotten rid of his roots.

Iker is just as envious as he is homesick.

Homesick for _him_.

**

The morning breeze hits their naked bodies, gently awakening them from slumber. It causes a shiver to go up Sergio's spine as he shuffles closer to Iker's much warmer body. He knows nobody will be interrupting them at this time of day, that's why he allows himself the courtesy of admiring his lover to the fullest. The first glimmer of sunshine peeks through the open balcony door. It bathes the King in a myriad of colors, ranging from canary to deep orange, and makes him seem like a work of art.

 _Maybe he is,_ Sergio thinks. He blames the lack of sleep to have made him this melancholic.

He caresses Iker's temples with reverence as he throws his leg over his thighs. He seeks the closure that gives him neverending comfort. It bears no importance that he's the more awake one of the two. The King wakes whenever he wishes, after all.

He leaves a trail of kisses up Iker's neck. Iker leans into his touch involuntarily, giggling quietly.

"I see you haven't left." he says.

Sergio's teeth graze over Iker's earlobe playfully, "Why should I have left? I'm exactly where I am supposed to be."

Iker's hand finds Sergio's own and grips gently. It is exactly the kind of closure he so badly craves -- stolen touches under the cover of privacy. It makes Sergio feel more connected to him. Though they are two vastly different people, during moments like these he allows himself to forget.

"I want to grow old with you." Sergio whispers, "Share a home, have a family, be happy."

Iker queries, "Aren't you happy?"

"I am." Sergio says confidently, idly playing with Iker's fingers, "I am."

If Iker has any doubts about the truth in his words, he does not voice them.

All he does is roll over to meet Sergio's face. He gazes sleepily into the brown hues that are looking at him with pure adoration. He kisses Sergio into oblivion, a mess of limbs and sweat but they wouldn't have it any other way. They're the closest they could be and that is all they care about. Sergio eases into it like he could keep on doing it for the rest of his life. Kissing Sergio is addictive, brings him into a frenzy and makes him forget about all urgent matters. He is the most urgent of them all.

They pull away relunctantly, panting quietly and hardening rapidly. Though he wish he didn't, Iker realizes that there is much more to this day than staying in bed with Sergio. He knows he'll have to move on eventually. Some things cannot wait.

"They will canonize you soon, before you even know it." Sergio says against the space where Iker's collarbone meets his neck, "San Iker, the Great, they will call you."

"No, they will not." Iker mumbles against his hair, "They could, but they will not."

Sergio sighs against his skin, the heavy weight of an uncomfortable question disrupting the air between them.

"Must you leave?" Sergio asks weakly, "Do you really need to do this?"

Iker leaves a kiss on the top of Sergio's head and speaks, "I have no choice. I do what is expected of me. You, of all people, should know that."

Sergio caresses Iker's bottom lip with his finger. Deep inside, he knows he's going to miss this. Nothing lasts forever, his mother would say.

"Please, don't change." Sergio begs, "Don't become your own murderer."

"I'll never change. I'll always be your Iker."

Sergio practically forces himself to believe his words. They are mead to his soul -- he clings onto them until the very end.

**

Many years ago, such a ginormous army at his command would feel intimidating. He would hide behind his father's much taller form and pretend he wasn't there.

Today, as the sunset shines on his face and reflects of his armor, he is the one in charge. Each and every face looks at him with such respect and determination it can hardly be fathomed. He doesn't feel small under their gaze like he used to. On the contrary, he feels like they give him all the power in the world to conquer _everything_. Under the name of _España_ , their holiest mother, he will take the world into his hands and forge it like he wishes. With help of his men, all ready and willing to murder everything and everyone that stands in their way, he will be the man his father never could be. Once he reaches heaven, he will stand tall before him, knowing he has made him proud.

Iker quickly learned that the unreachable is merely where the alive stride and the dead follow. Nothing more, nothing less.

The tinted pink sunlight reaches his eyes and causes him to frown. It creates a spotlight, one he never asked for.

"Show no mercy." Iker exclaims, "Spare no one."

And so they do.

The heavy weight of his sword in his hand makes him remember his deceased father. They would do fighting practise in the ballroom, unaware of all eyes watching them in disapproval. Iker was never the best fighter growing up but certainly the most determined. With every fall he took, he would do two more thrusts of his sword. Broken limbs and cut open arms were as normal to him as poverty to the citizens of Spain. He'd ask his father, _why are their lives so much worse than ours?_ His father would stare him down, cold and disappointed, and say that we do not determine such things by the amount of money someone has. Young Iker didn't understand. He just couldn't.

Now, he realizes that maybe a peaceful life as a farmer, somewhere far away from the capital, would be ideal for him. He would not have to marry out of duty but out of love. He wouldn't have to hide. He would be  
_free_.

These are the hopes of Iker Casillas, the young, carefree boy who always clung to his mother's dress. This boy, who would soon learn how to rule. This boy, who would lead an army. The boy, who at the mere age of 3 cried when his father brought a severed head to the dining hall.

King Casillas the Great is a feared man. He knows no shame, plays by no rules and always, always succeeds. You either love him or you hate him, there is no middle ground.

He idly wonders if those very people whose houses he is burning down would have followed him to death.

A woman throws herself at his horse in a futile attempt to run away from the fight, a little bundle snug in her arms.

"Mercy, my lord! Mercy!" she cries.

He silences her with one quick slit.

The bundle falls from her embrace to the cold hard ground. Inside it, a small head is peeking out and looking at him with sheer fear. The baby has warm brown eyes, much alike his own. Iker breathes in and closes his eyes.

He cannot do it. He beckons his horse to ride forward and leaves the innocent child to the hands of fate. Fate, or his soldiers.

As they stride forward, he quickly loses count of how many he has slaughtered. His armor is stained with blood that will never wash off, his fingers are practically soaken through and his sword leaves a disgusting trail.

He knows he will have Sergio awaiting him under the silky bedsheets until he comes, like a hero on a cold, dark night. He knows he doesn't deserve that sort of solitude.

Not as his sword pierces through a common farmer's breast. Not as his men raid villages and rape women, burn their houses and slaughter their children. Not as _"¡Viva España!"_ roars through the air and the people's screams ring in his head. Not as Spanish flags, his flags, adorn the blood-soaked hills.

On the horizon, a meadow of red and yellow tulips. They grace the landscape with beauty and with peace. He pretends not to have noticed them. For a moment, they remind him of his Sergio.

As he slits another man's throat, he cannot seem to remember the sound of Sergio's voice.

There is nothing but the neverending fight. They march on until all there is is the eerie silence and the persistent call:

_"¡Viva España! ¡Viva el rey!"_

There is nothing else... until there is.

"Iker!" echoing through the dark night.

All heads, including his, turn to where the voice is coming from. Before their eyes, merely a wide forest, nothing else. Nobody would adress him like this in such a situation...

_Unless..._

A rider on a horse emerges from the trees. His blue cape flutters in the wind. Iker immediately orders his soldiers to stop in their tracks. A sudden feeling of nostalgia hits him and with it, a feeling of belonging.

The rider wears a huge grin and his hair is muffled. When he sees Iker, he picks up his pace.

"Cesc?" Iker calls weakly.

Within arm reach, Cesc throws himself off his horse and practically runs into Iker. He embraces him with all his might, putting all terrible ten years of longing into it. Everyone is looking at them - expecting something, anything - but they don't matter in the slightest to Iker. Not now, not ever. Cesc's steady weight against his body is all that keeps him in the moment. Though in the current he wears a crown, it feels like time hasn't touched him and Cesc whatsoever. They're young boys again, careless and silly, hugging like there is no tomorrow. He feels a wet patch forming on the side of his neck. He missed it, too.

Under the cover of darkness, with hundreds of eyes watching, Iker finds solace in the comfort of Cesc's arms. Tonight, he is more than a king.

He is Iker Casillas, the boy who just wanted to be happy.

**

The moon serves as their only witness. It iluminates the King's bedroom with a very faint glimmer, not a sad one but an intimate one. There are hardly any stars adorning the night sky to accompany it. The world seems to have stopped around them.

There is no more fighting. No more blood. Nobody is screaming his name and begging him to stop.

All there is is the slight weight of Sergio's body on top of his own, his soft lips making their way down his torso. Nothing else exists in the world. He bites down on the space between his ribs, causing a moan to escape Iker's lips. His hands roam down his body with curiosity and need, animalistic need for pleasure. When they reach Iker's cock, he has to restrain them.

He grabs Sergio by the wrists and pulls them up to his shoulders. He tugs on them so that his hands press into his skin, right next to his throat. Sergio looks at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

"I want you like this." Iker gasps, "I want you to hold me down and take me apart."

When Sergio's thumbs experimentally press into the bottom of Iker's throat, he breathes in greedily. Sergio starts to grind down on Iker's hips to help him endure the pain. His eyes close when Sergio's fingers start pressing more urgently, _deeper, harder._ It's almost there, the sweet, sweet freedom when Sergio pulls his hands back to his face.

"Not like this." he pants, "Not unless you let me touch you first."

Iker nods his head in a frenzy. He is still coughing, trying to regain his normal breathing. It isn't often that he lets go of control like this. It isn't ever, really.

It was so close, so close that he could almost see what life beyond this world was like...

Sergio pulls him back into the moment with a caress on the inside of his thighs. It makes him yearn more closure, desperate for it. Every fingerprint indented on Iker's thighs is a means of posession -- he is his, and his alone.

"Never leave me, Iker." Sergio whispers as his lips meet the tip of Iker's cock, "Don't go where I can't follow."

Iker cannot think of a coherent answer, not when Sergio's slick fingers massage at his entrance. He cannot think when he feels them caressing his insides. When Sergio finally gets his hand on his cock, Iker loses it. He can only _endure_.

"We can still make it work, Iker." Sergio says as he massages Iker's sweet spot, "You don't have to do this. You don't have to go."

As Sergio's fingers leave his body, he almost has an answer ready. Almost, because, before he knows, Sergio is slowly pushing inside of him. It's agonizingly tedious, just the way he wants it. Sergio likes to take his time and savour every passing moment, imprinting it in the depths of his brain like a most sacred memory. Iker throws his head back and bites back on a moan, grabbing Sergio's hands in his own and leading them where they ought to be. Sergio pushes his shoulders down and, with all his weight, presses him into the soft mattress. As he picks up the pace, Iker is no more than a corpse with a purpose to serve and to please.

It's the most freedom he has felt since before wearing the crown.

"Stay with me." Sergio pants, "Please, don't ever turn your back on me. I'm losing you, Iker... I don't want to lose you."

The fast pace of his thrusts makes Iker edge closer and closer to release. The sound of skin slapping on skin truly belonging only in a brothel, the sweetest melody. His hand finds Sergio's chest and touches over where his heart lays weakly.

"I'm here, Nene." Iker whispers, "I'll always be here."

Sergio bites down on his lip to refrain himself from saying anything in response. His finger hastily goes from Iker's neck to his lips. When Iker bites down on the digit that is being offered to him, Sergio loses it with one, last, final thrust.

The night consumes the sounds of when Iker finds his release. Not in death but in life, he, for once, feels free.

**

The sun sets as he and Cesc roam the royal gardens. Madrid around them, the land of a billion lights, and the sky over them. Its colors range from red to baby blue, making it worth the price of some of the paintings Cesc smuggles, if not more. He longs for the feeling of Cesc's hand, smaller than his own, clutched inside his.

Reality has it that they are walking at a safe distance and, to Iker's surprisingly huge dismay, are not edging any closer.

"Tell me about the world. I have not seen much of it but Spain."

Cesc smiles, picks a single red rose off the bush and starts fiddling it in his hand, "The world is like this rose. It's so beautiful that it begs you to pay more attention to it. Then, when you do, it loses all its petals."

He drops the flower to ground and stomps on it with the heel of his boot.

Cesc gestures towards it, "Now, crushed and unappealing, it isn't so intriguing, is it?"

"It's still a rose."

"Wrong." Cesc snaps his fingers, "It's just a carcass."

Iker rolls his eyes, "Quit playing with me, _amigo_."

"Only because you asked so nicely." Cesc grins and beckons Iker to continue on their stroll, "I've been to Naples not long ago. It is gorgeous at this time of year. Though, it can hardly compare to Barcelona."

"Barcelona?" Iker halts, "Why should you talk of Barcelona?"

Cesc sighs, "I meant to tell you, long ago, sweet. Let us sit."

And so they sit, in the outerlands of the garden. The grass feels damp under their legs, just comofrtable enough. Cesc's knees make a cracking sound when he sits. He sighs before lying down. He looks up at the sky, the one place he had never properly wandered to, a perfect picture of peace. Iker loves him most when he is like this. His mind is someplace else, just as his hand starts hesistantly reaching Iker's.

"It's gorgeous, is it not?" Cesc whispers. Iker lies down next to him and watches the clouds make their way though the firmament. "I will never get tired of gazing at it. It's more priceless than any painting a human will ever paint."

"You used to always say you would take me there." Iker whispers back, the memories of his childhood hitting him like a warm mist, "To run amongst the stars and catch the clouds in our hands."

Cesc smiles at him, a gentle, nostalgic smile, "Maybe someday, I will."

"Why did you have to go?"

The question haunted Iker's mind for the last ten years. He couldn't refrain himself from asking it.

"I was scared." Cesc admits, rolling over to face Iker, "I was scared of what you were going to become."

"What does that mean?"

"You've changed, Iker." Cesc says quietly, "I've known you since before you were able to form a coherent sentence. When I look at you now, I cannot see my best friend."

Iker gulps, "What is it you see?"

"An incredibly lost man." Cesc whispers, "A mere shadow of the man I fell in love with. Before I know it, he's going to be gone and I will never see him again."

Iker mutters, "You're not the only one to think so..."

"What are you so terrified of, _mi alma_?"

He feels Cesc grasp his hand, encouraging him to continue. Iker finds himself counting the clouds as a means to calm his thoughts. Somehow, he could never keep secrets from Cesc.

"Dying. Being forgotten." Iker says, voice shallow, "Having to face my father in heaven or hell, only to have him look at me in disappointment. Death frightens me because it is what I will have to endure until the world ends."

Cesc's thumb caresses the soft of Iker's hand, "It is in our nature to fear death and, even more so, fear the dead. Fret not. When we're there, I'll hold your hand."

He could live in this moment. Enjoy the gentle touches of Cesc's hand, ask him about the past and the future, watch the day pass. But he will not.

After all, he isn't Iker Casillas, the boy who fell in love with an angel, anymore.

"Tell me the truth, Cesc. Even if it hurts."

Cesc exhales heavily, as though the weight of the whole world is right on his lungs. His hands begin to tremble slightly.

"I have betrayed your trust, _mi vida_. I wasn't regretting it up until now that I have you looking at me like this." Cesc whispers, holding back a sob, "Like we're young again. Like you still feel for me."

Iker puts a hand on Cesc's shoulder to steady him in place, "The truth, please."

"I was smuggling silver and crystals accross Naples for a few years. I built up enough money to build my own house. I hoped me and you would--" Cesc sighs, "That we..."

"It's okay." Iker shuffles closer to Cesc, hoping it'd give him courage, "You can do it."

"Then they caught me. They said that if I didn't supply them with the riches, they would kill me. I was scared, Iker. They took everything from me." Cesc trembles under his touch, "Then, once they decided I was of no use, I was on my knees. He had a sword pressed against the back of my neck when I told him I had valuable information to share."

Iker's heart tells him to edge away but his body is stuck in place.

"He told me that if I could help him defeat the King of Spain, he would spare me." Cesc whispers, hardly audible, "I'm so sorry, Iker. I hoped that when I found you, I could save you. Now, I see..."

"Quiet, Cesc." Iker orders him gently, "Who is he?"

He almost doesn't catch the name when it leaves his friend's lips, "Piqué."

His breath catches in his throat. He moves back, involuntarily.

"Gerard Piqué, the so-called King of Catalunya?

Cesc nods his head in shame before hiding his face in his hands. Iker watches as he sobs, letting go of all ten years' worth of grief and regrets. Part of him feels for Cesc.

The bigger part of him, though, cannot fathom that Cesc, of all people, betrayed him.

Iker entangles himself from Cesc's touch. He stands up and brushes the remainders of grass from his clothing.

"Goodbye, Cesc."

Cesc's frantic crying never stops echoing in his head.

_Traitor, traitor, traitor..._

The following morning, he has guards escort Cesc to the stairway before the castle. They throw him onto a pile of branches and leaves before pouring hot oil on it. Cesc utters not a word all throughout. His eyes bear into Iker's own -- not apologetic, not saddened. Perhaps a little disappointed. He cannot say he hadn't been expecting the worst from Iker. Rumours often tend to come true. Some worse than others.

When commotion gathers around Cesc's fragile, defeated self, Iker steps forward. The heavy golden crown on his head reflects sunlight and glows like a beacon. In his hand, a tightly clutched rosary.

He turns to Cesc and murmurs, "Remember, you stole it from me once. I forgave you without sparing a blink. Now, I see I have made a mistake."

Cesc throws his head down and whispers, "All I've ever done was for the well-being of _España. Lo siento, Iker._ There was no other way."

"There is always, always a way."

He beckons the guards to bring out the freshly lit torches. Fear momentarily glistens in Cesc's eyes before being taken over completely by determination.

"I'm sorry it had to end like this." Cesc murmurs hastily, "I loved you, once. I had never thought it would come to this."

When the guards are to his side, Iker grasps one of the torches and forced it out of the soldier's grip. He turns to the crowd.

"Witness the last moments of Francesc Fàbregas Soler, my old friend who has stabbed me in the back." he adresses them, "I will never tolerate betrayal. Not even amongst those closest to me."

"Mercy! Mercy, my lord!" is heard in the distance. Iker doesn't listen.

He focuses all his attention on Cesc, who has succumbed to staring down at his feet and humming an old tune. Iker recognizes it immediately. It is his and Cesc's favourite song growing up. They would pick fruit from trees and sing until the sun set. Cesc's father would have to come looking for them and when he did, they would be lying on grass and staring into the sky. Thinking, planning, singing.

Iker wishes for those days to come back.

His young self is tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, begging him to stop this play. It was never supposed to go like this. Him and Cesc were meant to sail the whole globe together and reach the unreachable hand in hand. They would die of old age, or perhaps of some heroic wound gained while protecting each other from incredible dangers. He hears and feels young Iker beg him to stop.

"I hope you find peace, Cesc. We shall meet again, I promise."

He gets no answer. Cesc keeps on humming as though he never heard Iker in the first place. He's in a world of his own. He always has.

Iker throws the torch into the stack of branches and doesn't look back. The fatal cry that escapes Cesc's body will be engraved in his mind forever. He will never hear him sing again, only scream as the muscles of his body slowly melt.

He runs back to his chambers and shuts the door down with utmost force. He sits by the window and rocks like a wee baby. The tears that have threatened to escape his eyes before Cesc have now successfully made their way out. They sting his cheeks and maim the marble floor. He cannot be strong. Not anymore.

The cold, hard floor is hurting his knees profoundly, but he must pray.

"Oh, Lord, won't you hear me out." he whispers, the red rosary clutched in his hand painfully, leaving deep marks, "Oh, Lord, won't you guide my hand. God, take mercy on my soul."

He prays for the Lord to forgive him for losing control. He prays for redemption. He prays for a place in heaven for his beloved.

He soon collapses next to the window from exhaustion. The gut-wrenching smell of a burning carcass fills the room and settles in his lungs.

His tears smell of burnt flesh. He wonders if so does his blood.

**

Madrid is a town filled with secrets. Where secrets are created, trouble arises and with it, mystery.

As he strides forward along the stone roads, they all start to look the same to him. It is as though the city is empty all because the King is at war. They all flee or they all fight, there is no other way. All there is left is women with their crying children and robbers, thieves, merchants. They feel so at home it is as though this was how Madrid was supposed to be all this time. Home to scum, the center of crime, the most mysterious town in all of Spain.

Sergio is abruptly pulled out of his thoughts once he reaches the red corals covering the doorway to his destination. A rather ugly kind of place, one would say, or a brothel, but it is where he is headed. It is practically empty during this time of day, all men having gone to fight for the King. There is zero purpose for the whores to stay around.

He sees the owner of the club, a determined young man, sitting behind the bar. It is so dark in here that he might not have noticed him unless he were looking for him. Agger has an odd talent for being able to stay hidden to the human eye. It's how he survives. When they do find him, though, it is not pretty.

Agger raises a hand, entirely covered in all sorts of ink, and beckons him to come closer. Once he does, the first thing he notices is the soft plump of his lips that are raised in a constant annoying smirk.

"Long time, no see, Agger!" he calls.

"Should I be saddned?" Agger replies, voice low and cautious, "The last time I saw you, you took away from me the one man I ever loved. The only one who ever loved me."

Sergio swallows a lump in his throat. He had expected, or rather hoped, that with the amount of booze the man drinks on a daily basis he would have forgotten by now. It seems the Danes have a higher tolerance for such things, and a much better memory.

"How is he?" he asks, pathetically, leaning his head like he was going to faint at any given time.

"I don't know." Sergio answers, "I haven't heard from him since he took the last ship to England."

"To England!" Agger barks, "That fucker never had any honour to begin with! Not only did he abandon me but he left you... Tragic, truly. He was better off here!"

"Maybe so." Sergio admits, "You should try to find him someday. I see it pains you to be alone."

Agger exhales dramatically, "It doesn't pain me to be alone. It pains me to know that he moved on so quickly."

When Agger reaches for his glass, Sergio briefly eyes the room. There truly is nobody here but them, the fire crackling far in the distance the only noise apart from the Dane swallowing. The couches are all black leather, luxurious in their own way. There hardly is any light coming into the room. It would explain why Agger looks so ghostly -- like he barely even belongs with humans.

"Back to the business at hand." Agger exclaims once he had smashed his glass against the dirty counter.

Sergio takes the seat in front of him, "I understand you have it ready."

"That, I do." Agger smirks, "You've paid your price but don't expect me not to demand more. You know how it is. I don't condone killing when it's of such great importance."

"You will be safe from any harm, I can assure you." Sergio lies, "Maybe we can both head to England once the deed is done."

Agger laughs, "You must've gone completely fucking crazy! I would rather be pierced a hundred times by every Spanish knight on this very floor than share a ship with you."

Agger reaches down behind the dark counter to raise a small bundle. He throws it on the surface and untangles from the cheap material. Revealed is a fine dagger, slightly shorter than usual but no less dangerous. No less sharp, either, he soon learns when he touches the tip and feels his thumb starting to bleed. The engraved details on the handle are reminiscent of Scandinavia, its culture and mythology. It is better that the dagger has no relation with Sergio whatsoever aestethically.

Agger looks at it adoringly as Sergio touches all the little crevices, "It's one of the finest craftsmanship I have ever set my eyes on. I saw to it myself. You will struggle to find a better discreet weapon in all of _España_."

"I trust it will serve me well."

"Do excuse me but I must ask," Agger queries, standing up from his stool, "Why are you doing this, Ramos? Are you not happy at his side?"

Sergio watches the shimmer of the fireplace reflecting on the dagger's blade. He sighs and looks up to meet Agger's wary eyes.

"Life isn't about whether I'm happy or not, Daniel." Sergio whispers, "I'm not doing this for myself. I'm doing it for the people."

For Francesc, the sailor who deserved a better end to his story.

Sergio thinks, _he doesn't want to end up like him._

The Dane reaches for Sergio's hand and sets his bony fingers on top of it, "I hope you will not regret it until the end of all days."

"I might."

He lets Daniel Agger comfort him for the first and last time. He watches the flames dancing on the silver blade. They remind him of the sun...

**

His fingers ghost over the lines around Iker's eyes. His eyelashes feel coarse against his fingertips, like the stiff peaks of thorns adorning a beautiful rose.

Though, Iker is no rose.

_He is a garden._

Iker is a great, big garden that only those who are worthy are allowed to wander in. He is home to tulips, reminescent of the alluring landscapes of Seville, and to lillies, the queen's favourite flowers. Together, the flowers create something akin to if you let a hurricane rearrange a ballroom. They do not mix, they do not match, and, above all, they do not like to share.

The key to the garden is not easily found. It is not hung around Iker's neck, nor underneath his clothing. It is wound tightly around his heart. Its painful clench serves as a constant reminder not to let people in.

Cesc had the right to enter since he was a kid. Sara, he had no choice but to let in.

_But Sergio..._

Sergio didn't earn the key. He barged into Iker's heart and took it with the power of the most terrible storm.

Iker would soon learn that storms tend to lead to rain, and rain to sunshine.

As Sergio's hand settles atop Iker's chest, anxiety arises. Its steady beat is beautiful, almost to perfection, so great that it makes Sergio perplexed. Iker's body reflects warmth, so radiant it reminds Sergio of the sun. It makes him remember home, the beads of sweat rolling down his neck as he runs over the neighbour's fence, the face of his mother when he told her he had to go--

He halts in his movements as Iker shifts in his sleep.

He never shuffled much in bed. Busy and lively during the day, Iker tend to let go entirely once sleep takes him in her embrace.

Sergio's other hand hides behind his back and presses into the bedding, almost painfully so.

"Why aren't you asleep, _mi amor_?" he hears Iker ask.

He moves his hand from Iker's heart to his cheek. The hard edge of his jaw almost uninviting, yet the soft skin and the rough hairs make it almost impossible not to cup it.

His fingertips caress the skin behind Iker's ear as he murmurs, "I couldn't sleep. Something seems to be haunting my mind."

"We'll talk about it later. I promise." he answers, pulling Sergio into a kiss.

Kissing Iker is like exploring the garden for the first time. However many times, it always feels like a first. Iker has the ability to take his walls and destroy them all with a force of a single kiss. It is anything but forceful, though. He feels like a blushing maiden whenever Iker treats him like this.

Like he could possibly _love him._

Then, in his head, the voices of thousands of innocents roaring in his head. The crackling of fire serves as background noise, disgusting and forceful but it does not overcome the constant screaming. Buildings, homes falling down, and the sound of hooves hitting soil. Knights bickering, laughing, attacking. Leading them is a warrior of worldwide fame, the first of his name, the one who cannot be beaten. The noises are deafening, almost too much, so much that he almost pulls away. Almost. Because Iker...

Iker has had him wound around his little finger the whole time.

Sergio's hand arises from where it was hidden. Inside it, something cold is clutched.

A shudder washes over him as he takes the heavy weight in his other hand and wounds it around his and the King's bodies.

He looks Iker in the eye, savouring the moment, "I love you, Iker. I love you like I have never loved anyone in my life. Know that it pains me to do this."

He leaves Iker not a single second to consider a reply before sinking the cold blade inbetween his ribs. It tears at the soft, familiar skin on his back, creating a cut that will never heal.

Iker's face turns into a terrible mix of a gasp and a grimace. His fist clutches pathetically at Sergio's hair and _pulls_.

He whimpers, "Why?"

The tyrant, Casillas the Great, _whimpers_.

Something is off. Something is very off.

"You're a bad man, Iker. It is the least I can do to pay for the sins you have committed. You left me no choice."

The words leave his lips but, somehow, he is not sure he means them anymore.

Iker heaves a breath as his hand falls down to the back of his lover's neck, "Who are you to judge me?"

Sergio looks down at where his and Iker's feet are still tangled together. Lovers' comforts, Iker calls it. He isn't sure when they became _this_ , whatever _this_ is, but, in the back of his mind, he wonders whether life might have treated them better in a different universe.

Maybe in that universe, where Iker's hands weren't forever stained with blood and his head conflicted about who he is, they could have been something more. Maybe then, he wouldn't pathetically attempt to shimmy out of Iker's tight embrace on his legs.

It's not the most romantic scenario to be entangled with the man you stabbed in the back, figuratively and literally.

"A person." Sergio replies, pushing the dagger further in until it causes Iker to cry out, "A free person."

Iker laughs at his words, the laugh catching somewhere in his throat and coming out more hoarse than usual. Be it ironic or impressed, Sergio cannot tell. He might have learned how to read Iker given all this time but never this well.

He feels Iker shifting closer to him. Curious, how you can put every men to humiliation. King or stonemason, all it takes is some effort. Iker desperately reaches for Sergio's arm and clings onto it. Like there are no more important matters in the world, like Spain does not require another ruler after Iker-- _after he--_

He makes it seem like the last piece of solace he craves is Sergio's skin under the tips of his fingers.

"You make so many promises you cannot keep." Sergio whispers, much more to himself than to Iker.

"And it has become the end of me."

Sergio caresses Iker's hand, "Alas, you will be with him. Spain shall remain yet you will be free."

Iker groans, "They will hang you for this. You'll have to run."

"Maybe." Sergio admits, the sole of his foot pressing gently into Iker's calf, "But not if I kill them first."

Iker's hand makes way up to his cheek, "I'll miss--"

It abruptly falls down, like a leaf falling off a tree during autumn. The spark leaves Iker's eyes with his last, dying breath. He shall be forever remembered and painted wearing this miserable expression - one of someone betrayed, one of someone in love. Iker is still peacefully entangled with his body, as though this is how he was always meant to be. They lay like lovers, like a pair bound by marriage, maybe even by something bigger.

Only then does Sergio notice a single tear has spilled from the corner of Iker's eye, escaping at last. He thought he'd feel a lot of things once the deed is done -- pride, a feeling of purpose, fulfilment. He does not feel a thing. He kisses away the tear running down Iker's cheek and cradles him like a mother whose son has died in her arms.

Sergio watches in silent sorrow as the last tulip in the garden dies.

He lets go of the fine dagger, the weight of it uncomfortable in his grip. Instead, he reaches for the red rosary that lays atop the stand next to Iker's _\-- their --_ bed. It belonged to his mother and her mother before him, a thing of great importance and even greater symbolism. He clutches it in his hands and prays for the Lord to take mercy on his soul.

 _"Lo siento, Iker."_ he cries against Iker's hair, "Please, wherever you are, forgive me. _Lo siento..._ "

He lies with Iker until the sun rises, until the world wakes. Iker is merely the cold body next to him, alas defeated, alas free. He will not kill any more children and their mothers, nor will he go to war. Not for Spain, not for honour, not for anything. He will not be no more. They will not mourn for him, nor will they bury him.

The funeral for King Casillas the Great, the first of his name, will be sung about for centuries. But it will not be Iker they bury.

They will never bury the tulips. They will never bury his love for Sergio.

Sergio robbed him off those things. Just like a petty thief, he took them without permission. He would not bear visiting the King's tomb and mourning for him. He will never shed a tear for him.

For Iker, he will sob. Under the dark cover of night, he will spill traitorous tears that are not meant to be. He will cry until all there is left is the crackling of rope when they wound it around his neck and tighten it with utmost force.

He will cry.

But first, he will guarantee his and the people's freedom.

**Author's Note:**

> Now, I know this is hardly about bed sharing... but there is loads of bed sharing!  
> In my head, I've always had this idea for a huge medieval fic and well, this is not it but when I saw the opportunity to write something like this I went and took it. Forgive me if you came here expecting smiles. I have warned you!  
> As always, comments and kudos are immensely appreciated! <3 Catch me on tumblr, I go by the name cuterone over there.
> 
> \-----  
> mi alma - my soul  
> mi vida - my life  
> mi amor - my love  
> amigo - friend  
> España - spain  
> Lo siento - I'm sorry  
> el rey - king  
> If any of these is used incorrectly do let me know! I don't speak Spanish whatsoever.


End file.
